Wishes upon the stars
by EddieIrvine
Summary: Maglor sang outside Feanor's secret forge in Valinor. Rated K-plus just to be safe.


Disclaimer: This is but a fanfiction derived from the beautiful original work of Professor Tolkien. I own nothing but the mistakes.

A/N: Beta-ed version. My sincere thanks to Mornen for her kind help :)

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><p>He had come down the forge alone – to escape for a while, perhaps, from daily choirs and endless association with people. Feänor did not find it necessary to restrain his sons' free usage of this place. Of course, coordinating the schedules of seven people* must have been excruciating business, but as long as there was a constant production of quality weapons, Feänor cared little which of his sons had contributed more – except when it was Curufin, his most beloved.<p>

The hammer fell. At the first clangor of metal with metal, he slid into the blissful sensation, as if he entered the Hall of Music at beginning of Time. Each crystal sang in accordance, and the world seemed to yield in reverence of the maker. Outside this forge, his life had never seen such order, or perhaps he was but one stubborn grain being ordered in the hands of the others – and he hated this.

He was forging a blade, longing for the power it would give him, yet even in the smithy, there were others, whose dexterity he could not hope to catch up with.

"This will not make it."

Caranthir whirled around to find his brother. Inwardly, he groaned in frustration. Curufin, arguably the best smith in their family after Feänor, was not hesitant about criticism, and Caranthir was ever irritated by the characteristic smirk and the superior air.

"What, then, is your opinion, brother-mine?" he said vehemently.

Curufin brushed aside the piece of metal he had been working on with such delicate disdain that Caranthir almost wanted to hit him. However, the younger brother did not go on to pick at the other as was his wont, only rearranged the coke and knelt down at the bellows wordlessly.

"See to the shape of the fire," he advised. The voice was made of crystalline water, clear and unmoved by the scorching heat of the forge.

Caranthir snorted, but picked another chunk of metal to put into the hearth. If Curufin deigned to work with him, he might as well take the favor.

For a while, both of them were intent upon working.

Then Caranthir spoke with hardly concealed acerbity. "What brings you here, brother? I presume you usually have better business to do than extending your precious helping hand to the lesser."

Curufin would not take this kindly, he knew, but impetuosity got the better of him.

It was then that the music started, soft notes at first, like the drops of rain that collect into tiny streams and wind their way upon rocky hill slopes, where the water gathers until it pitches over a protruding boulder and spills down into a deep ravine, reaching its defined course, and pools and riffles deck the channel. Then the music sprang up, like a river upon the rolling plain, gathering tributaries along the way, in droughts it can not be drained, and storms only add to its grandeur; residences gather along its fertile banks, where people revere the river, till it debouches into the sea; there seagulls wail and waves toy with sailors, overthrowing their ships if they wish, but always the sounds of the sea remain, strong, like the music.

Freedom and power. He knew what the music spoke of. Maglor was wont to play outside the forge, and he always found it welcome.

Caranthir broke from his reverie to find Curufin eyeing him with honest confusion. Abashed, he inclined his head slightly toward door. "Kano."

"I know," Curufin said abruptly. There was a subtle change in his tone that Caranthir could not pin down about; but he had forgotten the heating blade beside them. Suddenly sparks spilled from the hearth and Caranthir jumped.

"It's molten! By Mandos…" He cursed and examined the damage carefully, to see whether there was any chance of salvage. The burn was infinitesimal. He took up the tools, but the sudden impact at the side of his body nearly toppled him. The hammer dropped with a clang. "What do you think you were doing?" Caranthir bellowed at the perpetrator.

Against the lively flames, Curufin was an expressionless silhouette.

"That will not be perfect," The figure uttered hoarsely.

Caranthir was torn between laughing at and cursing his brother. "I'll have nothing of this silly perfection. Another round of heating and the area cannot be discerned from the rest, by appearance or by nature. I do not wish to waste top grade ore."

"You never know if one crystal goes awry!" Curufin's voice suddenly rose to near hysteria. "And this forge is meant for perfection! Or why do you think it's kept secret? It's meant to be kept from incompetent workers like you!" A few raven-dark strands had escaped from the neat plait during the previous exertion; Curufin brushed them back impatiently. Sweat glistened on his neck.

Caranthir stared at the other in disbelief. Criticism over his work, he could tolerate, but personal attack was downright outrageous. He gave Curufin a heavy shove on the shoulder. The other readily did the same in retaliation. But then a string of notes sounded from the harp outside the forge.

Surely, Maglor never had to deal with people as irritating as Curufin in his personal studio. Caranthir sighed and put up his hands in peace.

"Our elder brothers would certainly disapprove of brawling. We are supposed to know better."

Surprisingly, he found Curufin no longer angry at all, though still breathing heavily.

"You are affected by the music," the latter said with slight confusion, "Why?"

Caranthir raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it common among our people? Music is powerful and Kano's in particular. Even Father once said so."

"I know Father appreciates Kano's music," Curufin agreed, "He says it is wrought beautifully and inspires his own work. I do not see his point." But he made no further explanation.

Befuddled, Caranthir stared at his brother, only to realize again how much Curufin resembled their father: the raven-dark hair, the face, the shoulder and spine, and even the soot-covered apron and the air of arrogance; they were all alike – all except the fire. In Curufin's eyes that was a dull glimmer, almost lost in the dim light of the forge.

Again, Curufin began abruptly. "You asked why I came here. Turko decided to ride alone with Irisse today – he always had a thought to court her. That left me behind." He shifted his weight from one foot to another, hands twisting together and occasionally resting upon the wall behind.

Curufin's voice was much softened. Caranthir did not know how to react to this. Had he just seen Curufin wavering? The mental picture quite upset him. With such limited daily contact as they had, he never expected Curufin other than arrogant, but if Curufin hoped sympathy would overcome taken offense, he was direly wrong.

"Then one would expect to find you with Father," Caranthir remarked with a sardonic smile. "It would have been much more enlightening business than bickering with an inept brother, or you could whine your way back to mother. You're blessed with all forge skills; they dote on you."

He did not know how he fell, but there he was, on the ground and straddled by Curufin.

"Or I could have thought better than seeking out your company!" Curufin snapped, all expression falling back to wariness and open rage.

Caranthir scoffed and turned away. He would never understand this brother. Outside the forge, Maglor had started the song all over again. _Work and music, these were much easier to handle than one who has contempt for your work and person_, thought Caranthir darkly.

But unexpectedly, Curufin dropped his hands and looked into his brother as if for some reassurance. Were it other than Curufin, Caranthir would worry about this strange behavior.

"I did go to Fëanáro today, in hope to present him a few jewels I made for the festivals, but he scorned at them and told me to go. I should have expected it. After the Silmarils…"

"So, you went here, deriding me, to boost your own confidence?" Caranthir shouted in disbelief. "You seemed not to understand the situation, Curufinwe! For your unlucky, less-talented brothers, Fëanáro has rarely given so much as a look at their work. Even being scorned is considered lucky! I'm afraid you confessed to the wrong person!"

He could hear the music go on, wherein Maglor's voice rose high and golden above a storm of notes like the rays of Laurelin. _Hold your own_, Caranthir sighed to himself inwardly. Sometimes, he imagined what it would be like, to work as a scribe like Maedhros, or to simply disregard the Noldorin tradition like Maglor and Celegorm, but though he was not devoted to the forge like Curufin and Feanor, he loved smithy work for pure sake of its own. Despite all his limited talent he could not abandon the forge.

They were sitting face to face now; the fire in the hearth abandoned and burning low. Curufin had been taken aback by his outburst, but murmured an apology.

"Yet you might be different, Moryo," Curufin said. "The forge is not all of you. When you get bored, you often listen to Kano playing. You take pleasure in music and inquire of him about songs and ballads. He has learnt so many songs from the Teleri and composed even more. I wish I could…"

"What does it avail me?" Caranthir cut in angrily. "Distracting me from my work, I'm afraid you'll say. I enjoy working in the forge, but because of my love for music, I cannot bear spending all my days in it. I end up wasting the ore and you can just laugh at me for that!"

"As if my devotion has brought me anything! I'm sorry, Moryo," Curufin said unevenly, "I just… Father is going to be disappointed by me now and forever, after the Silmarils... I knew what he saw once, which within Arda I had no hope to set my eyes upon – The Vision of the Music of the Ainur, Moryo. He saw the origin of the lights and their nature, that was why he could capture them. I know all my talent could not even carry me half that far, but Father will have nothing less than them now."

_This is unfair_, Caranthir thought bitterly. He had long accepted Feanor's indifference and Nerdanel's apparent partiality toward the twins. So why should he comfort this brother, who sulked because no one pampered him?

"What does the Silmarils have to do with your work? I doubt even father will ever be able to make their like again. You are merely behaving childishly, Curvo." He could not help the sarcasm. "You cannot accept that Father, for once, treated you simply like your other brothers, that you might not be so extraordinarily outstanding. I sincerely advise you to learn some humbleness."

"But do you truly understand me!" Curufin said brokenly. "Have you lived under the expectant eyes of another, aware that each moment you're failing him? Have you heard many praises for a work bearing the name Curufinwe, knowing none of them referred to you? Have you wished to hate a person but could only worship the very ground he walked upon? Have you, being forged and forging yourself in his likeness since your Essecarmë, realized that you're no better than a fake and mockery of him? Moryo, you chose the smithy out of your free will, but I have only chosen my life because I am named after my father! Yet none gives me a heed when he is present, and mother believes Fëanáro is enough for me."

Curufin clutched Caranthir's hand so tightly that it hurt. To Caranthir's astonishment, what he had thought was sweat were actually tears glittering on Curufin's face. The younger brother looked flushed and vulnerable and seemed to have lost all traces of Feanor now.

"I always knew I was no genius – they say geniuses have affinity to music, like Father." Curufin sighed, eyes downcast. "Yet all my life's meaning has been to work for his delight; other things like lore and music, I have shunned. Even ridding with Turko is more a need for fresh air than a hobby. Now I've reached the end of my talent, yet see no other way to go. I should have known better."

Caranthir, honestly speaking, remained suspicious, but brotherly concern finally got the better of him. He squeezed Curufin's hands in silence, thinking wryly how he desired control and power of the forge, only to end up being manipulated by this more capable forge worker.

"You merely touched the reality latter than most of us," Caranthir said, "Of course, the farther you go, the harder it is to turn back. Sometimes, I do think Turko and Kano are the luckier among us; their careers are not overshadowed by many others before them. To succeed or fail, they do not have to bear the beholders' eyes."

They sat in silence for a while, but the music had long ceased.

"Have you ever imagined having this freedom?" Curufin finally asked hopefully. "You know, I do not loath riding."

"I don't know," Caranthir said truthfully, "but for now, why not put down the matter and go for dinner? Kano must have long gone."

Curufin nodded. As they turned the corner, however, they overheard a forlorn voice.

"Maitimo, my Teleri friends will all laugh at me tomorrow! I can never perfect this song. Isn't it silly that a Noldo on earth should aspire after the foamriders? Sometimes, I wish I could forget all about music."

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><p>* Feanor and his sons, with Celegorm excluded. In the Silmarillion, it was said that "Often they were guests in the halls of Aulë; but Celegorm went rather to the house of Oromë, and there he got great knowledge of birds and beasts, and all their tongues he knew." I somewhat liked the notion that beautiful, haughty Celegorm did not care much to cover himself in soot and ashes. :P<p> 


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